


Althaea Frutex

by kailiff



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: M/M, This is like Pinocchio but gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kailiff/pseuds/kailiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Have you heard about the woodworker man? He plays his sitar every night for his dolls, in that little cottage on a hill in the middle of the woods. Zemyx. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Althaea Frutex

**Author's Note:**

> A transfer from ff.net. This is some sort of effort towards being more artsy and serious than in my usual work. I was originally going to give this a really depressing ending but I decided against it. :)
> 
> I experimented a bit with the flowers, which were all chosen based on meaning. Anyway, I hope I captured the POV of an inanimate object alright. Hope you like this short little oneshot.
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://lullabyshark.tumblr.com/)

In a little victorian cottage sitting on a hill, all nestled far away from the world, is where this story begins. The panels on the side of the house were the color of marigolds, the molding of moonflowers. Out front was a garden more beautiful than any ever seen, enrobed in geraniums and amaranthus. Creeping morning glories snaked up the balusters on the front porch. The air was fragrant and clean and crisp. It was all meticulously kept, but visitors rarely ever came. No one would stop to bend and admire how plump and pink the bleeding hearts were. The people who came were in far too much of a hurry to obtain what they came for and leave as quickly as possible. The woods were unfriendly, had sharp, poking branches that would drag you off and eat you up. Too much time spent dawdling meant walking through the forest at night, when anything could happen. After all, town was a long ways off.

It was in this cottage, on this hill nestled away from the world, I was born. I do not think I was born in the traditional sense. I remember I suddenly came to be. I sat near the wall on the far side of the workroom day in, day out. The windows on either side allowed sunrises and sunsets to reflect orange light off my eyelashes, clashing with the steely blue of my eyes. A sheet of slate-colored hair shaded my button nose, my rosy cheeks. I sat there, all darned up with lace, so good, so well-behaved. I never spoke. I don’t believe I ever had the ability to. Every day I watched him work.

The man who lived in the cottage with me would come and go. I never knew how he managed to get past that forest, or how anyone could, for that matter, nor did I know where he would go. By some incredible miracle, he would always return home to me completely unscathed by the forest’s incredible jaws. He always looked over at me and smiled, and sometimes I could see a tired glimmer in his eyes. He always smiled, no matter what. Sometimes he would straighten my clothes or fix my hair, but it was always with a smile. Was he really so happy?

One day another man appeared. Who was he? This man had a head of fire, a thousand times hotter than the pink and orange glow of the sunrise that danced so warmly along the wooden panels of the floor. His eyes were beacons, and he looked right at me. A crooked smile curled and tugged at his lips, and he turned to the man I lived with. He pointed a finger. I didn’t appreciate that very much; pointing is rather rude. But when I saw those deep green eyes sparkle, I forgot everything. He was grinning, his tone proud. He was very proud, and he was happy his guest had noticed me, sitting alone on the far side of the room. The man with the head of fire left just as quickly as he came.

Soon I was not so alone. Others just like me appeared, though none caught the man’s gaze like I did. The others only stayed shortly, and were soon replaced with new ones. They didn’t talk to me, though. Like me, they couldn’t say anything. The man spoke to us. It didn’t bother him in the slightest that we couldn’t respond. It was as if he expected it to be that way.

Eventually, I learned the man’s name. I heard it muttered one hazy afternoon by another stranger. His brown hair stuck up in all directions, his eyes a dancing sky-blue. _Demyx_ , he’d called out. One of my fellows sitting next to me had caught his attention. He called the man over. He handed a small bag of coins to the man, to Demyx. By the next morning, I had one less companion sitting next to me. He was soon replaced by a new one. _Demyx_.

After long days of work, Demyx would sit down by his workbench with the sitar he carved himself, and play for us. Demyx was very good at carving, and playing the sitar. He made other instruments, too. Violins, guitars, whistles, and drums. He carved a beautiful mandolin once, a special order from one of his customers. He carved more than just instruments. His birdhouses were gorgeous, and he made all sorts of delightful wooden toys ranging from trains to blocks to wooden swords. As beautiful as his carvings were, and as much as I enjoyed watching him work, my favorite part of the day was still when he would play his sitar for us. Notes flitted freely from the strings, forming delicate chords and melodies. The music filled the tiny cottage with sound until it was almost bursting.

I do not remember how it happened. It could have been gradually or all at once. I fell in love with that man. I fell in love with Demyx. It was the way he smiled, it was the way he held his knife when he carved, it was the way he played his sitar. Sometimes while he worked, he would talk to me. He would stretch his arms and look over at me in the dim, yellow candlelight, but all I could do was look back. Customers who made remarks about me made his already dazzling smile brighten. _That’s Zexion_ , he’d say proudly. Did he love me too?

I had to communicate somehow. But without the ability to speak, what could I do? I could not move, but I suppose I had never tried very hard. Demyx had opened the window, and a breeze was blowing through. Perhaps it could assist me in getting his attention. He was on the other side of the room mixing paints, oblivious to my efforts. I locked my gaze on him, concentrating on my leg to move. I must have been concentrating a bit too hard, because a particularly strong gust of wind swept by and knocked me down. I fell with a clatter to the floor, and a startled Demyx turned around. Frowning at my splayed body, he picked me up and placed me back on my spot. He scratched his head.

“Must be a draft.”

He went over and closed the window. It appeared I would have to do it all on my own. Attempt after attempt, nothing happened. As hard as I tried, I just couldn’t move. Demyx stopped opening the windows after that incident.

Demyx put up a mirror on the other side of the room. He’d carved the frame, a rich mahogany with elegant, dark curves. He’d painted parts gold, small, carved flowers now gilded. The mirror was directly across from me. I had never really seen myself before. I had seen my arms, my legs, my feet, but never my face, nor had I seen them all together in one image. Reflected off the cool surface of the mirror was a doll sitting on a shelf surrounded by other dolls. The doll in question was dressed in navy blue breeches and tights with a shirt and matching waistcoat. In its hair was a blue rose and a sheet of lace, around its neck a lacy cravat. Underneath the doll was a placard stating its name, _Zexion_ , and hanging below, a small sign displaying three simple words.

**Not for sale.**

I have never felt like crying before—I never had the ability to, anyway—but upon seeing myself, I had the greatest urge to. My eyes, delicately painted cobalt, had no means to form tears. I was forced to sit there the rest of the day, staring at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, not even to watch Demyx at his workbench. Demyx, the man I lived with. Demyx, the man who created me. Demyx, the man I loved. When nightfall came and Demyx snuffed out his candle and went to bed, I believe I wept as well as I was able. The moon illuminated my spot on the shelf, allowing me to continue staring at my reflection. If I had muscles, tendons, bones, I would have frowned.

“I can help you,” a voice whispered, sweetly cutting through the darkness.

A figure stood over me, glittering in the moonbeams. She was lovely, almost completely composed of light and mist. Her smile was almost motherly, sweet and dripping with honey. I had never seen her before, but once I saw her, I knew I could trust her. She seemed somehow familiar.

“You can?” I asked tentatively, hesitantly, voice just as low as hers. I almost jumped, surprised I could speak.

“Your heart is aching, Zexion,” she nodded. Her expression was so soft. “I can help you fix it.”

“I’m a doll. I don’t have a heart,” I replied, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. How long have I been able to do that?

“Of course you do,” she said. “If you didn’t have a heart, you couldn’t fall in love.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Aqua,” she replied, soft, soft, soft. “Zexion, what is your greatest wish?”

There was a pause. To answer this, I had to think. What _was_ my greatest wish? My entire life thus far had been composed of watching, listening, hoping he would look my way. Of course, he did, but that was all it ever was. A look. There was no meaning behind it, no real feeling. I was, after all, only a doll. I could not move or speak. I could not tell him how much I loved his sitar, or how that doll house he was working on was really coming along. I could not cook him dinner after a hard day of strenuous, neck-abusing, eye-ruining work, which he was sometimes so invested in, he forgot to eat. I could not drink tea with him at tea time.

With downcast eyes, I considered my wish.

“I think you know what it is,” I replied. I glanced up at her face just in time to catch her smile widen slightly.

“Of course.”

Then she was gone. She seemed to fade away in a cloud of mist, leaving only a glittering blue aura in her wake. I realized I once again could not move, could not speak, could not knit my eyebrows together. I glanced at my lonely reflection one more time.

I was not aware of falling asleep. I’ve never been able to before. Suddenly it was black, and suddenly it was not. I heard birdsongs warbling through the air. Demyx must have opened the window. I smelled the stargazer lilies in the garden. This, however, puzzled me. I’ve never been able to smell before. I noticed I was not sitting on the shelf, but laying on something much softer. Had I fallen off the shelf onto the carpet? When I opened my eyes, I saw endless blue. I couldn’t remember ever seeing paints as vividly, flawlessly blue, or cotton fluff as pure and white. Even with lilies blocking my vision, I—

I stopped. I didn’t dare breathe, if I had the ability to. I didn’t blink my painted cobalt eyes. I heard a pounding in my chest I had always been unable to hear before, for it hadn’t existed. I felt the stems of flowers through fingers I never used to have. Somehow I had ended up in the garden. Somehow I blinked, though I never had eyelids before. Somehow I sat up all on my own, no wind being present to give me a helping push. Then I breathed, suddenly aware of its necessity.

“Um, sir? Are you alright?” came a feeble voice from the porch.

As I turned my gaze, I came face to face with striking sea-green. Awe-struck, swallowing thickly, my mind tumbled over an answer. I didn’t even know if dolls could dream but this had to be one. I was afraid to speak, too many what-if’s clogging my brain. I had to try anyway.

“Yes, um,” I began, though unsure what to continue with. “I must have collapsed in your garden. I apologize.”

“That’s alright. Can you stand? Do you need a doctor?” he asked, expression resembling that of worry.

“No, I’m quite alright,” I reassured him, involuntarily putting up a hand, though I wasn’t quite sure why.

“Here, let me help you up,” he offered, swiftly stepping down into the garden from his spot on the porch.

He offered me his hand, which I tentatively took in my own. With both our efforts, I was hoisted to my feet, though a bit wobbly. As a doll, I never had to stand before. Once on my feet, I saw he was almost a head taller than me. I took a deep breath, absorbing the scent of the flowers surrounding us.

“Thank you,” I said, voice low. When he let go, I stumbled a bit.

“Would you like to come in for breakfast?” he asked. “I’m making tea.”

“Only if it’s not too much trouble,” I said. “You probably weren’t expecting company this morning.”

“Of course it’s no problem,” he smiled, leading me inside. “By the way, what’s your name? I’m Demyx.”

“Zexion.”

The inside of the cottage looked so much smaller. I had never been in any room other than the workroom. On the way to the kitchen I caught a glance of my spot on the shelf. It was empty, though the sign and placard were still in place. I didn’t notice I stopped and was snapped from my haze with a pat on the shoulder.

Sitting down at the kitchen table was very different from my shelf. With breakfast Demyx served tea with milk. I savoured every bite and sip, as it was the first food I had ever eaten. But before I could even get one bite in my mouth, I noticed Demyx leaning on his hand and watching me. He had an expression of deep thought and concentration, the same face he wore when he carved particularly intricate pieces.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked, expression easing up.

“Yes...?”

“How did you wind up in my garden this morning?”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m unsure,” I replied, biting my lip, something I’d seen him do on multiple occasions. “I simply woke up and I was there.”

“Alright, I have another question, then,” he said, eyes never wavering from my face. He took a deep breath. “You’re my doll, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I said. I looked down at my plate. “I couldn’t stand just sitting and watching you anymore. I made a wish, and it came true.”

“Looks like we both made the same wish,” he said.

When I looked back up I saw that smile again, though so much wider than I’d ever seen it before. His eyes were only two green slivers suspended up above his cheeks. Shyly, timidly, I smiled for the first time, and I suddenly understood why he smiled so much.

The panels on the side of the house were the color of forget-me-nots, the molding of baby’s breath. Out front was a garden more beautiful than any ever seen, enrobed in chrysanthemums and honeysuckle. Creeping jasmine snaked up the balusters on the front porch. The air was fragrant and clean and crisp. It was all meticulously kept, but visitors rarely ever came. No one would stop to bend and admire how plump and pink the fuchsias were. I, however, stopped every morning, for I was the one keeping the garden. I only sat near the wall on the far side of the workroom when I read, and allowed the sunrises and sunsets to reflect off the leaves of my books. I did not speak much, but only when I needed to. In the evenings I listened to Demyx play his sitar, and midday I served tea. After a long day, I made us dinner.

Every night I looked up at the moon and smiled, because I could.


End file.
